


Of Weeping Guitars and Octopus's Gardens

by Lissy (Alicia_H)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: April Showers Challenge, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-10
Updated: 2008-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-18 13:26:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alicia_H/pseuds/Lissy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George and Ringo in 1968, during the recording of While My Guitar Gently Weeps.<b></b></p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Weeping Guitars and Octopus's Gardens

I watched as his fingers worked their way up the slender neck of the guitar, mastering difficult new solo in a way I never could. I saw his hair, longer than ever before, fall into his eyes as he sang along to that haunting melody. I wasn’t really listening to the words. We’d heard them so many times over the past few hours that I didn’t need to. So, I was watching him. He was a beautiful man and I feel no shame in saying it. No one should, because it’s true.

John wasn’t pleased that he was still here, working on a song that wasn’t his for hours on end with no sign of stopping. Paul seemed surprisingly happy, considering how he’s been lately – wanting to control everything, wanting it to sound just right. Before I left, he was on my kit like a flash every time I went to fetch a cup of tea.

But, like I said, John was growing impatient with George’s insistence that the song would work if we could only find the right way to play it. "I don't think this is going to work you know, George. Maybe we should drop it."

He ignored John, putting aside the acoustic guitar and picking up an electric one. George began tuning it up and muttering, "We just need to find the right sound."

"Right sound? May I remind you how many times you said that the other week with that other fucking song of yours? 100 odd takes before you were happy."

Still ignoring him, George said, "Let's just try it an' see."

“Go on, John. It can’t hurt,” Paul said, moving from his seat on the other side of the room to join John and George.

“Yeah, all right then.”

I looked up from my long abandoned card game meeting George’s eyes. He was the only one I felt like looking at. I definitely hadn’t come back to listen to them squabbling over what I thought sounded like the best thing George had written.

"Do you need me now?" I asked, hoping that was the end of it.

"Yeah, we need you, Ritchie."

"Heavier, did you say?" I laid the cards to the side and picked up my drumsticks with a grin.

I sat down at my kit and did a few practice taps before crashing down hard on a cymbal. George span round with a grin, laughing as we started another run through, not taking it quite so seriously this time and trying to lighten the others up. Wanting a quick way to relieve the tense atmosphere, I started messing about on the drum part. George laughed again as I started shaking my head about like we used to do on stage.

My routine ended a little too enthusiastically, with me tumbling backwards off my stool. On my way down I dislodged some of the red, white and blue flowers that had been George’s gift to welcome me back home. Within seconds he was there, holding out a hand to help me up. I could hear the other George over the talkback, asking if I was all right.

My George assured him I was fine, before asking me if I wanted a cuppa.

"Actually, I fancy a pint before the pub down the road shuts."

George nodded and, as he was passing me my coat, I added in a whisper, "I've got a few things to talk to you about."

And we did talk undisturbed for an hour and a half in the all but empty pub. By the time we got back to Abbey Road, John had left but the three of us did some more work on the song anyway. I don't know if Paul noticed the change but both George and I were in a more serious mood after our discussion. Not because we'd fallen out or anything, but because we had a lot to be thinking about.

~

Later that night, we left the studio together with George still frowning about the song.

"Would you like a lift?" he asked me, hovering by his car. I could tell he wanted to talk some more.

I nodded, climbing into the passenger seat. "D'you want to come over tomorrow before the session."

"Sorry, I'm seeing Eric tomorrow."

"Oh, right." There was an awkward silence before I added, "I didn't thank you for the flowers."

George, resting his hand on my knee and smiling, said, "It's all right. I'm just glad you're back."

"Me too. I think."

"So how was the holiday?"

"It was good, you know. I heard about octopuses and how they build these gardens with things they find lying around." I smiled to myself at the way George could bring me round from being sad about the whole thing to focusing on the positive things that had happened to me while I'd been away.

"Why don't you tell me about it on the way home?" George revved the engine as we left the car park, flying off down the road and taking the corners like an F1 driver. He knew I’d always loved fast cars and he also knew I trusted that he was good enough not to put us on the front page by running over the Queen Mum or something. I could also trust that with George at the wheel, we wouldn’t end up wrapped around a tree or stuck in a ditch by the side of the road.

“I’ve started writing a song about it, you know,” I said as we raced down our favourite of all the bendy country roads on the journey home.

“Can I help?”

“I'd love that, George. I really would.”

  



End file.
